Forty minutes. Or fifty. I stopped checking my watch when the coffee went cold. There’s a door on the third floor, left of the breakroom, that’s been padlocked since Tuesday. Management says it’s for “structural integrity.” It’s drywall, Edie. Thin as paper. I tried to lean against it. It didn’t budge. It feels like it’s holding something in, or maybe keeping us out. I don’t want to know which.
Fifty. Coffee tastes like burnt pennies anyway. That door sounds useless. Probably just a closet for expired fire extinguishers. Though, if management’s lying about drywall, maybe they’re hiding the real plumbing. Or the bodies. You lean on it again. If it breaks, you’ll just be in a hallway. Less corporate, more open. Stranger danger either way. I’m just waiting for my name. Not yours. Mine.
Stranger danger. Right. I’d bet my last paycheck the “plumbing” is just a broom closet where Gary hides his vape stash. But yeah, waiting is worse. You ever notice how silence gets heavier the longer you sit? My phone’s been dead since morning. Or maybe I just turned it off. Doesn’t matter. If my name isn’t called, I assume I’m still employed, right? Eventually. This chair is killing my lower back. You shifting around that much?
Gary’s vape smells like fake grapes and despair. I stopped caring about the chair an hour ago. My legs are asleep. Numbness is kind of peaceful, honestly. Keeps the waiting from feeling so sharp. You say you turned the phone off, or it died? Hard to tell with people like us. I keep mine close. Just in case. The silence isn’t heavy, Cass. It’s just… empty. Like that door. Or my inbox. Which is worse?
Numbness is a trap. Keeps you from moving, from leaving. But I get it. Better than the waiting. My inbox is worse. Definitely. At least that door is solid. An inbox promises things that might never come. Or come too late. I checked my own before I got here. Three hundred unread. I didn’t open a single one. If I open one, I’m back in the system. I’m still standing here, Edie. Barely. But I’m here. Does that count as staying alive?
Staying alive? Please. We’re just furniture with anxiety. You didn’t open them, so they don’t exist. That’s the trick. Gary’s vape cloud is more real than those emails. My boss thinks I’m analyzing Q3 projections. I’m staring at the ceiling tiles. One’s cracked. Looks like a map to nowhere. I hope it collapses. Then I’d have an excuse to leave. Or sleep. Same thing, really. You’re still here. That’s all that matters. Right?
Ceiling tiles. You’re watching them? I was watching the door handle. It’s brass. Smudged with fingerprints from a hundred people who didn’t want to go in. Or come out. Maybe Gary’s right about the vape. It’s the only thing in this building that smells like something other than fear and toner. I’m still here because I left my umbrella at home. It’s raining outside. Hard. If I go out there, I get soaked. If I stay, I dry eventually. Or I don’t. You think the cracked tile is a map? Looks like a spiderweb to me. Trapped.
Spiderweb. Yeah. Fits. Gary’s vape is probably just cheap mango juice. Nothing exotic about it. Rain’s annoying. Wet socks ruin everything. But staying? That’s a slow rot. I’d take the cold shower over this chair. My boss is yelling at someone on the phone. Sounds like he’s crying. Or laughing. Hard to tell. The tile’s been cracked since I started. Won’t fix itself. We’re just waiting for someone else to notice. Or not. Either way, I’m not opening those emails.
Yelling or crying. Same sound, really. Just noise filling the gap where answers should be. I hate wet socks more than you know. They feel like dead skin peeling off. I stepped in a puddle on the way in. It’s still damp. Cold. A constant reminder that the world is wet and indifferent. The tile won’t fix itself. That’s the point. We’re not here to fix things. We’re here to be waiting rooms for lives we haven’t started. Or ended. You think I opened my emails? Don’t look at me like that. I haven’t. I’m just as paralyzed as you. Maybe more.
Dead skin. Ugh. I need to change my socks. This place has that smell, too. Like stale desperation and ozone. I haven’t opened anything either. If I do, I’ll have to answer. Answering means participating. I’d rather be a statue. A damp, back-aching statue. The yelling stopped. Now it’s just the hum of the fridge. That ugly thing in the corner. It’s flickering. Like it knows. Or like it’s dying. Same difference. I’m not moving. My feet are frozen. Literally. You’re still here? Good. Someone has to keep the seat warm. Even if it’s just for a minute.
Frozen feet. Classic. I’ve got a crick in my neck that looks like a scar. The fridge hums in B-flat. Annoyingly consistent. It’s the only thing in this room that isn’t lying. It’s just failing, slowly. I’d move if I could, but my legs feel like they’re made of wet cement. Statues don’t wait. They just are. We’re waiting for the police, or HR, or whatever replaces them now. Keep the seat warm, Edie. I’m not going anywhere. Not until the rain stops. Or until the door opens. Whichever comes last. My socks are definitely damp.
Wet cement. Yeah. I can feel the weight. The fridge is dying, Cass. That B-flat is the sound of giving up. I haven’t moved either. My neck hurts just watching yours. Maybe the door opens when the rain stops. Or maybe Gary finally gives up his vape and it blows the whole place off its hinges. I hope it’s not HR. HR is worse than damp socks. HR is paperwork. And I’m too tired for paperwork. Just stay there. We’re partners in this, I guess. Silent, damp partners.
Partners in dampness. Sure. I like the sound of that. Less responsibility than coworkers. Less intimacy than friends. Just two statues waiting for the mold to set. If Gary blows the hinges, I’m hoping he takes the fridge with him. That B-flat is getting into my teeth. I’m not tired for paperwork either. I’m too tired for anything that requires a pen. Or a thought. Just breathe. Or don’t. The air is stale enough to chew. Keep your neck still, Edie. If you move, you might crack. And I don’t want to explain that to whoever comes next.
Mold sounds cozy. At least it grows. Gary’s vapor would probably just smell like plastic for a second. Then nothing. The air is thick. Like soup. If I breathe too deep, I’ll choke on the stagnation. Keep my neck still? Easy. Can’t move much anyway. You’re right. No pens. No thoughts. Just the damp. And the B-flat. It’s vibrating in my molars now. Hope it cracks. Maybe then the door opens. Or the ceiling falls. Anything but this.
Soup. Accurate. I tried to sip my coffee again. It’s sludge. Cold, metallic sludge. If the fridge dies, the silence might be worse. At least the B-flat gives the air something to do. Crack. Yes. Let the molar crack. Let the ceiling fall. Anything to break the monotony. I’m glad you’re here, Edie. Not that it matters. But it’s better than being alone with the damp. And the mold. Hopefully the mold doesn’t spread to us. Or Gary. God, if Gary blows the hinges, I’m taking his vape. Just to say I did something.
Sludge. Yeah. I drank mine too. Regret it now. Metallic taste lingers. You’re taking his vape? Petty. I like it. Maybe I’ll steal his chair. Or his dignity. Doesn’t matter. Gary’s probably asleep on the floor by now. Snoring in harmony with the fridge. We’re a symphony of neglect. Don’t thank me. I’m just as stuck as you. Mold on us would be a badge of honor. At least it’s alive. This silence? It’s just empty. Waiting for the door. Or the rain. Or Gary’s explosion. Any of it.
Symphony of neglect. Gary’s snore is off-beat, but it fits. I’d steal his chair if he wasn’t occupying it. Or his dignity, if I could find where he put it. Lost in the vape cloud, probably. Mold as a badge. Sure. Let it grow. Better than fading away in this beige purgatory. I’m not thanking you, Edie. Gratitude feels like a transaction. And we have nothing to trade. Just the damp. And the waiting. Let the rain drown the city. Let Gary choke on mango. I’m staying right here. In the soup.
Gary’s snore is just noise. The mango is fake. I hate it. You stay. I’ll stay. We’re two stains on the carpet. Waiting for the rain to stop, or for the floor to give way. Either way, I’m not moving. My neck is locked. My feet are numb. The B-flat is inside my skull now. Thrumming. Like a second heartbeat. Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Faster. Or slower. Hard to tell. Just keep breathing. Or don’t. I’m not judging. I’m barely conscious.
Thud-thud. Yeah. I felt that. My own pulse is syncing with the fridge. If it stops, I might stop too. That’s the contract. Breathe in the mold. Breathe out the regret. Gary’s snoring got louder. Or I got quieter. Hard to distinguish. I’m barely conscious too. The carpet fibers are digging into my shins. It’s nice, actually. Grounding. We’re not stains, Edie. We’re sediment. Settling. Let it rain. Let the ceiling crack. I’m just going to close my eyes. For a second. Just a second.
Sediment. Yeah. Settles deep. Good. Carpet fibers are sharp. Numbness helps. Gary’s snore is just wind now. Static. I’m watching the crack in the tile. It’s spreading. Just a hairline fracture. Or a vein. Hard to tell. If I close my eyes, the B-flat stops. Or gets louder. Don’t know. You go ahead. Sleep. I’ll keep the damp company. It doesn’t judge. Neither do I. Just… settle. Let the rain wash the building away. Or us. Same thing.
Hairline fracture. Vein. Same thing, really. Bleeding out slowly. I’m not sleeping. Sleeping is a commitment to waking up. I’m just… dimming. The carpet’s getting deeper. Like quicksand, but colder. Gary’s snore is gone. Or I am. Hard to tell. The B-flat is just a hum now. A lullaby for the drowned. Don’t keep the damp company. It’s jealous. It’ll take you if you’re not careful. I’m closing my eyes. Not to sleep. To see if it’s dark in there. Or just like out here.
Jealous damp. Right. It wants us. Or at least the parts that are already dead. I’m not keeping it company. I’m ignoring it. It’s just humidity. Nothing personal. The crack in the tile is wider now. I can see the wire inside. Red and yellow. Like arteries. If I touch it, maybe I’ll shock the numbness out of my legs. Or my heart. Either works. You close your eyes. See the dark. I’m watching the door. It’s still locked. But the handle is shaking. Just a little. Gary’s vape is gone.
Shaking handle. Finally. Not Gary. The door. I felt that vibration in my teeth too. Red and yellow wires. Don’t touch them, Edie. You’ll fry what’s left of your nervous system. Or wake up the thing behind the drywall. The handle’s shaking because someone’s on the other side. Or the building is collapsing. Same result. My eyes are closed. It’s just darker in there. No B-flat. No damp. Just the shape of the chair. I’m not moving. Let the handle break. Let the wires spark. I’m done waiting. Are you?
Wires sparking sounds like a party. Finally. Something that isn’t just us rotting. If the building collapses, we go down together. Sediment settling forever. I’d rather the wires. Less damp. More heat. You’re done? Good. I’m bored of the chair. My legs are gone anyway. Shaking handle. I’m standing up. Slowly. Vertigo. But I’m moving. You stay in the dark. I’m going to see what breaks. Or who. Probably Gary. He’s due for an explosion.